


Occam's Electric Shaver

by Tallulah_Rasa



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallulah_Rasa/pseuds/Tallulah_Rasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A car crash, a bus crash, a suicide, a baby...they couldn't <i>all</i> have happened, obviously.  And there <i>has</i> to be a logical explanation.<br/>House figures it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occam's Electric Shaver

**Author's Note:**

> Written during Season 5 or 6, I think, and...well, this just seemed more plausible to me.

He’s...sorry. Worried. Hopeful; he’s—

No. That’s not right. Something’s off.

He’s…sorry?...worried?...hopeful? Confused. He’s confused. He’s sorryworriedhopefulCONFUSEDfrightenedsorryworried. And itchy. And there’s a droning thumpthumpthump that’s maddening. He’s annoyed. He’s sorry worried hopeful fuzzy itchy annoyed he’s…

Awake.

Oh.

It’s dim. He’s in a bed. Okay, not a ditch, then. He remembers a car crashing into a house, but also a motorcycle crash, and a bus crash, and logically they can’t all have happened. Maybe he’s been dreaming? That’s possible. But this isn’t his bed; this isn’t his bedroom. His sheets are softer, and his bedroom doesn’t thump or beep. Oh, monitors. Those are monitors. Hospital, then. Crash is looking more likely, but…bus? car? cycle? He doesn’t remember. He does remember a shooting, but he doesn’t have that fuzzy post-anesthesia fog, and no one’s waiting for him to wake up, so he’s not in post-op, and…

Ah. Dim; no one waiting. That’s not good. He’s been out for a while, then. Probably non-responsive, too. Parked next to Coma Guy, maybe, but he can’t turn his head enough to see. Not paralysis, though; he can feel the scratchy sheets, and his fingers move when he orders them to. If he could lift his hand enough to reach the call button…

Oh, right. Coma patients don’t get call buttons, since they don’t do a lot of calling. Damn. He’s going to have to wait for the next bed check, unless someone at the nursing station noticed a spike in his heart rate. But they’re probably too busy to check – this floor’s got the post-op ICU and the overflow from Ortho. Lucky he’s breathing on his own. It’s hell to wake up with a tube down your throat.

Well, he can probably figure out a few things without a nurse. He can turn his head a little to the left now, and he can see (He can see! That’s good. And he can hear and think, so maybe this isn’t so bad.) …yeah, that’s Coma Guy. He’s spent enough time by his bed to recognize Coma Guy’s shape, even from a different angle. So that confirms where he is (he was right!), but…didn’t Coma Guy die? In…huh. He remembers Atlantic City, being with Coma Guy in Atlantic City. And Coma Guy was talking. But Coma Guy’s here, and so is he, and…that makes no sense.

Okay. Something here has to make sense. Unless he’s hallucinating. He might be hallucinating. He might not even be in the hospital, though it definitely smells like a hospital. But he needs data to confirm that, so he should see what’s on his other side. If it’s a dragon, or Cuddy naked, he’s probably hallucinating. He just needs to turn right…but in a minute. Turning right is always tricky; he doesn’t want to put too much pressure on his leg, even though it’s not really hurting at the mo—

Oh. No, okay. He can feel both feet, and the shape of the blanket over him clearly indicates two legs. Two.

Okay.

He lets out the breath he was holding and inches his head to the right. His muscle weakness is pronounced enough that he’s probably been out more than a few weeks. He’s not stiff, though, so he’s obviously been having PT. Unlike the woman in the next bed, who’s got the hands of someone who’s been…though they shouldn’t be claw-like, not like that, not unless she…but the blood work would have shown that, wouldn’t it? Unless they stopped running blood work. That happens sometimes when the patient’s stable but non-responsive, and—

“Bxwgghh,” he rasps. Damn. That’s not going to get anyone’s attention. His vocal chords haven’t been used in a while. Cuddy must have been thrilled.

He tries to clear his throat, but he can’t. But maybe that doesn’t matter, because someone’s just come into the room. He can only just see; he still can’t turn his head too much, but—

It’s Wilson.

He tries to raise a hand, make a sound, get Wilson’s attention, but right now the damned machines are making way more noise than he can. He can just see...Wilson’s carrying a tray. Wilson probably brings a tray every afternoon, so they can still have lunch together. That’s…kind of pathetic, really.

He hopes Wilson hasn’t taken pictures of him with fries sticking out of his nose.  But that’s stupid; of course Wilson has.

He snorts at that, and Wilson looks over at the sound…

And drops his tray. Fries and ketchup everywhere. What a waste. He would’ve liked a few fries.

“YOU…You’re awake!” Wilson almost shouts, rushing over.

Huh. He must’ve been out for some serious time. Guiness record level, maybe, though Wilson doesn’t look that much older. Well, the details can wait; someone needs to look at Claw Lady over there. He tries to point to the right, and manages to sort of fling his hand against the bedrail. “Budwk,” he says.

Wilson’s eyes are comically wide, but he doesn’t move. “You’re awake,” he says again.

Boring. “Bwu.” Damn. He tries again, taking a breath and concentrating. “Blood. Worrrrrk,” he finally gets out.

Wilson is staring. “You want to see your blood work?” he asks in a choked voice, before fumbling with his phone. He’s probably paging someone, or telling whoever’s the current Mrs. Wilson that it’s going to be a late night.

He rolls his eyes and does the almost-pointing thing to Shouldn’t Have Claws.

“You want to see her blood work,” Wilson says, sinking onto the bed. “Of course you do.” Then Wilson starts laughing. Hysterically. Or sobbing, it’s hard to tell.

Someone else runs in then, white coat, blond hair – ah, Chase.

Chase takes in the situation without blinking – good boy – hands Wilson a tissue, and pulls out a penlight.

He puts up with that for a few seconds but, damn, there are important things they could be doing now. He bats the light away and gestures to the right. It’s a little easier this time, but his arm is getting tired.

“He’s diagnosed her,” Wilson tells Chase between sobs or laughs or whatever it is he’s doing. “I don’t know with what, but he thinks her blood work should be checked.”

“Okay, I’ll have someone do that,” Chase says right to him, not Wilson, and really, good boy. He’d pat the kid on the head, if he were the type to do that, and if he could extend his arm that far. Though… the shock might give Chase a heart attack, and that would be inconvenient, seeing as how he's currently the only person in the room who's not an idiot.  The only _mobile_ person, anyway.

Chase, who has conveniently paused so he can process, picks up again. “Do I need to ask your name and where you are?”

He shakes his head. There’s still a lot of stuff he’s not clear on, but that, he knows.

“Okay,” Chase says again, typing something rapidly on his phone. “I paged someone about the blood work. We’re going to have to do a neuro check on you, but for the moment -- what else do you need?”

He runs through everything he remembers, but it’s hard to tell what’s real. If he knew the date, that would help – there’s only so much that can happen in a week or a month – but Wilson’s still a mess, so first things first. “Cancer?” he gets out after a few tries.

“You? No,” Chase says. “You have—“

“No,” he interrupts, and nods toward Wilson, who’s finally calmed down a little.

“Yes,” Wilson says carefully. “I’m an oncologist. A cancer doctor.”

He rolls his eyes again. “Duh. Do you…?”

Wilson just looks confused, but Chase – give the boy a biscuit, already – says, “Wilson doesn’t have cancer, House. No one you know has cancer.”

Okay. Good, then. Cancer’s boring. He sinks back onto the pillows and breathes in and out a few times.

“I told you we shouldn’t have had the bloody soaps on so much,” Chase mutters.

“What do you remember?” Wilson asks.

The question makes him uncomfortable. Brain damage is a real possibility here, and he doesn’t particularly want a neurologist poking around at the moment. Or ever. But if he’s got brain damage, sooner or later he’s going to have to face it. Or, possibly, diagnose it. And damn it, he wants to know.

“Crash…?” he ventures.

“You’re not here because of a crash,” Wilson says, which isn’t exactly what he wanted to know. He could still have crashed his car into someone’s house, for one thing. On the other hand, he can rule out being injured in a bus crash, though—

“Amber,” he croaks out.

“You know about Amber?” Chase asks, and then he turns to Wilson. “Didn’t you start dating her after…?”

Wilson drops his head into his hands. “Of course he knows about Amber,” he says through gritted teeth, and then he looks up. “Yeah, yeah. Crashed and burned,” he says, sounding resigned. Beyond resigned, and what the hell?

Did he…? Was that crash real? Was he responsible for…?  “Wilson. Wilson, I’m sorry. I--” but he can’t continue, can’t breathe. There’s something heavy on his chest, and he’s gasping. Wilson’s eyes get even wider, but Chase pulls an oxygen mask over his mouth and looks into his eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but Amber’s alive, House,” he says. “She’s fine. She and Wilson had a messy break-up, that’s all.”

Oh. Okay. O…kay. He breathes in and out, and then waves away the mask.

Wilson has the oddest expression.

“What?” he finally gets out.

Wilson doesn’t say anything, so Chase steps in again. “I think you’ve been hearing everything that’s been going on around you, and incorporating it into your reality,” he says, and then he turns to Wilson. “When Amber sat with him, did she put on the TV?”

“ _Days of Our Lives_ ,” Wilson says.

Chase makes a face that clearly says he finds the rest of the world idiotic. It’s a little like looking in the mirror, if the mirror showed him younger and blonder and a lot better looking. “Look, this is kind of a long story,” Chase says to him. “Do you remember a patient who…” Chase stops, darts a look at the door, and then sticks his tongue out. “Tawked ike iss?”

Tongue Guy! That wasn’t a dream? Never mind; he remembers. “Tumor?” he asks.

“Not exactly,” Chase says. “I’ll show you the chart later. We kind of stumbled on the diagnosis by accident. You weren’t around, because you—“

“Got shot?” He remembers that, too.

“Yeah, you got shot, you bastard,” Wilson confirms with feeling.

He nods. “That’s not a long story,” he says to Chase. Talking is getting easier.

“Neck and abdomen, if you’re interested,” Chase says. “Surgery went well. You asked for ketamine before you went under. We found the studies you’d been reading, and Cuddy and Wilson okayed it. We set you up for 5 or 6 days, figuring--”

“Detox,” he supplies. “And enough time to…” Damn. He’s too tired to finish the sentence.

“To rewire your pain circuits, so to speak,” Chase continues for him. “So, the rest is a good news-bad news kind of thing. You--”

“Oh, my God!” someone says, and he could almost cry, because he was just about to get the final pieces. Ketamine coma, that explains a lot. But he still remembers things, and he doesn’t know if they’re things he heard or things he dreamed or real. And what month is it, anyway? What year?

“Oh, my God,” the newcomer repeats, and yeah, that’s Cuddy. He hopes she’s wearing a low-cut top; surely she’s going to want to check his eyes, and she’ll have to bend over to do that.

“House,” she says, and stops, stock-still, by the side of his bed.

“He woke up,” Wilson says unnecessarily. “And then he diagnosed Mrs. Garvin in the next bed.”

“Of course he did,” Cuddy says in that same shocked voice. It’s creeping him out. Come on, it’s not like it’s 2016. Cuddy doesn’t look ten years older.

“I was just telling House--” Chase begins.

“Your house,” he blurts out.

“You..are?” Cuddy says, and then, “ _What?_ ”

He shakes his head. “Not me. Your house.”

Cuddy just looks at him. “What about it?”

He swallows. “Is it…? Did I…?”

Cuddy looks at Chase, who’s apparently his translator. Chase frowns. “Her house is fine.”

“No one…drove a car into it?” he asks.

“You had to watch _As the World Turns_ with him,” Chase says to Cuddy, and then he turns back. “I _told_ them not to watch soaps with you.”

Wilson and Cuddy never listen. He could have told Chase to save his breath. “So…the baby…?” It galls him to have to ask, but without knowing how much time has passed, he can’t tell if the lack of baby’s barf on Cuddy’s suit is indicative.

“Whose baby?” Cuddy asks gently.

“Yours?”

Cuddy startles. “Me with a kid? No thanks. I have enough on my hands with this place. Not to mention you.”

Okay. Good. One more thing off the list. “Not my fault I was shot,” he says, though…was it? He looks at Chase.

“Not your fault,” Chase confirms, and he’d be weirded out by how well Chase is reading him, except that at the moment it’s pretty comforting. “The shooter had a thing about geniuses, apparently. If you hadn’t been around, he would’ve gone over to the Physics Department at Princeton.”

“Did he have a baby?” he asks, because the baby has to fit in somewhere.

“Adopted? Crack house?” Wilson asks nervously.

He nods. True, then?

“Lifetime movie of the week,” Wilson says sheepishly. “It was a long day. After I turned on the TV I dropped the remote, and I didn’t have the energy to root under the bed for it.

A likely excuse, he thinks. Wilson loves sentimental movies. Though it _is_ tiring caring for a coma patient. Especially over time…

“How long?” he asks Chase.

But someone skids into the room just then, all energy and flashing teeth. “He’s up! You’re up!” he practically yells, beaming. “Cool.”

“Kutner,” he tries.

“Wow. You were listening,” Kutner says. “Yeah, I’m Dr. Kutner. The PTs were all afraid of you, and my specialty is sports medicine, so I took over your PT for a while.”

“You died,” he murmurs. He remembers that, but apparently it didn’t happen. That’s disorienting. What’s true? It’s important that he knows the truth.

“You heard about that?” Kutner asks. “Huh. I guess the nurses talk. I didn’t actually die, I just kind of electrocuted myself a little trying to resuscitate a heart patient.”

He processes this. “You didn’t shoot yourself.” No, duh. He must be more tired than he thought.

“No one lets me near guns, so no,” Kutner says cheerfully. “But the last time I worked with you, I put some hospital drama on the TV, and one of the doctors on that shot himself. I was pretty surprised. I think you were, too – your heart rate spiked, and—“

“Even after the ketamine wore off, you were apparently processing outside stimuli in a more…hallucinatory way,” Chase says. “Or, I don’t know, maybe that’s how your brain always works. But you’ve been doing it while you’ve been unconscious, for months, so—“

“Is this the good news or the bad news?” he asks. His mouth is dry. He must be making his thirsty face, though, because Wilson pours him some water and positions the straw so he can drink.

“The bad news,” Chase and Cuddy both say.

So there’s good news, then, or what Chase and Cuddy consider good news. His job’s still there, probably. “How many months?” he asks when he’s had enough water. “And what level Glasgow?”

“Sixteen,” Chase says, flat out.

Is that a joke?  “The Glasgow scale only goes up to fifteen. And higher numbers are better.”

“Months,” Chase says.

Wow. He’s missed a lot. No way his TiVo could hold that much.

“I DVR’d the Super Bowl,” Wilson says. “But the new James Bond film just came out, so you’ll be able to see that in the theater.”

So apparently they think he’ll be up and around sooner rather than later, and able to navigate a movie theater. And to understand a movie. Good. “You’re buying the popcorn,” he says.

“Like I’ve ever not?” Wilson says. He seems miffed, like he expected something else.

“Can I come too?” Kutner asks.

Kutner’s like a puppy. He’s not really a dog person, but he’s more of a dog person than a cat person, from what he remembers. And it seems like Kutner did a decent job with his PT, so… “Maybe. How come you stopped doing my physical therapy?”

“Your idea, not mine,” Kutner says.

“You…” Cuddy begins, and then starts again. “When it was clear you weren’t going to come around, people - a lot of people, actually – volunteered to sit with you, talk to you--”

“Watch TV with you,” Chase says pointedly.

“Watch TV with you, against the advice of your intensivist,” Cuddy concedes. “And at first that was fine, but eventually, you…well, you were pretty clear about wanting them out of there.”

He frowns. He was in a coma; how the hell did he do that?

“You started getting agitated around certain people,” Wilson tries to explain. “Sometimes suddenly, sometimes with a slow ramp-up. Eventually, a person’s voice, or perfume – I don’t know, something – would set you off so much we’d have to pull them from the roster.”

“I think you were constructing some sort of narrative from whatever was going on around you,” Chase says. “You were trying to make sense of the stimuli you were taking in, even subconsciously. So if there was a bus crash on a TV show, you apparently associated that event with yourself, and with the real person sitting with you when the show was on. You heard a story, and put yourself and whoever was around into that story. If the story involved someone dying, you believed the person with you died. If the story involved someone getting hurt, or committing a crime…well, you get the picture.”

Ah. That explains a lot. Not, of course, why he picked up on death and destruction over, say, sex, but still, that explains a lot. Except… “You said almost everyone?”

“You got rid of me and Dr. Volakis fairly early on,” Kutner tells him, still cheerful. “Then Cameron and Foreman – remember them?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Right. Well, you let Foreman back occasionally.” Kutner looks down for a minute, and when he looks back up he’s clearly avoiding looking at Cuddy, who’s pretending she’s not sniffling. “Dr. Cuddy was the biggest, most sudden break. You were okay with Dr. Wilson for a long time, but then for a while he could only be around on and off. Chase is pretty much the only one you let stay around the whole time.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t take it personally,” Chase says with a hint of a smile. “I just figured out not to watch soaps or crime shows with you.”

“So, what _did_ you do while I was lying here helpless?” Damn, that’s hard to even kid about.

“Oh, I watched TV,” Chase says. “Australian football, mostly, though sometimes C-Span.”

He can’t tell if Chase is lying. Chase, it seems, is ready to leave the nest. What else has he missed?

He doesn’t have a chance to wonder about that; Foreman and the head of Neurology barrel in, and then everyone’s talking at once, exclaiming and explaining and arguing, and not actually paying any attention to him. Except for Chase, who just catches his eye and shrugs.

Huh.

Well, at least this is going to be interesting.

 

End


End file.
